


Qui Fuisset Eius Concubinus

by Arianne



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anal Gaping, Anal Sex, Intercrural Sex, Language Kink, Large Cock, M/M, Rimming, Size Difference, Size Kink, brief watersports mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-12 23:19:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18456671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arianne/pseuds/Arianne
Summary: “They truly believed me to be your concubine. They believed I could take this into myself. That is what they assume, isn't it?”





	Qui Fuisset Eius Concubinus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [noahfronsenburg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noahfronsenburg/gifts), [jonphaedrus](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=jonphaedrus).



> Thank you for the excuse to roll around in this pairing! This fic just kept growing, and I had so much fun working on it, where size kink and age difference and Latin all meet.
> 
> Title is a phrase from Caesar’s _On the Spanish Wars_ , referring to a combatant’s freedman "who was his concubine”, because the most self-indulgent thing I can imagine would be to read van Baelsar's _On the Conquest of Ala Mhigo_.

They first discuss the potentiality where the Burn gives way to the outskirts of inhabited Garlean territory, where Maxima announces his decision to part ways.

He is too recognizable, he claims, and it would only endanger them to be seen with a known member of the Populares, given their attention from the Emperor’s personal guard even in the most desolate of Imperial holdings. It seems to Alphinaud that Gaius regrets it even as he acknowledges the necessity of it, and endorses Maxima’s intention to report back to Ala Mhigo. Still, Alphinaud senses Gaius feels the loss most keenly among their band; he and Maxima spent the evenings some distance apart from the others, speaking quietly of the doings of their homeland in detail Alphinaud himself could barely follow though he listened intently, with names and military jargon forming so much of their dialogue it is as if they spoke a dialect even within their native Garlean.

Though much to his own regret Alphinaud is not yet able to fill Maxima’s conversational role, Gaius does take him aside to speak the night of Maxima’s departure. He sits and Alphinaud does the same, but what he says is no political talk, simply stating, “I expect we will enter regularly patrolled territory in another day’s walk.”

“I had understood as much,” Alphinaud begins. It is true he is less familiar with the relative travel distances of Ilsabard, but not once in their acquaintance has Gaius engaged in such rudimentary instruction. Alphinaud sits up a bit straighter, as if he were at the negotiating table, unsure whether he should proceed with skepticism or interest. “You wish to discuss geography?”

Dare Alphinaud think it, lest he be seeing merely what he might like to see, Gaius looks impressed. “No. I take it you are equally familiar with our social customs?”

“To the extent I have been able to read of them," he admits, hesitant when the aim of the conversation remains no clearer.

“I and my companions will turn few enough heads. They look as any common soldiers, and lacking the signifiers of my rank I command little enough attention.” It is the closest he has yet come to admitting his identity, the knowledge unspoken between them as Alphinaud had long deduced the man can be no other than the no-longer-late Gaius van Baelsar -- though having not been given leave to, he still does not speak his name outside his own thoughts.

The admission is a further oddity, and only causes Alphinaud to narrow his gaze in thought even as he continues the thread of the conversation to its conclusions. “But an Elezen such as myself appearing to be below the military age, and speaking in the manner of Sharlayan, will not pass so unnoticed,” he thinks aloud.

Gaius nods. “It is rare enough to see a son of Sharlayan outside the capital, let alone an arcanist. One of your build would not be assumed by most to be of use to the army.” He says the words as though he does not like their taste, but then he has been well-known to be more pragmatic on merits than any other of his rank; even his grandfather’s notes had attested it, as well as the rare tale Cid has shared of his youth, before he catches himself in fondness and quickly redirects his topic.

Further -- though they have not had to repeat it, to great relief -- the memory of fighting side by side against his own countrymen clearly weighs on Gaius’ mind as it does Alphinaud’s, and Alphinaud dares to think he had done himself proud that day. Though the nature of their advance into imperial territory may now differ, as he performed then, he must again.

“Then I must be of another use,” Alphinaud states in no uncertain terms.

“You are quick, boy.” There is a flash of recognition in his eyes, and his brow softens, and Alphinaud makes up his mind: he _is_ impressed.

Alphinaud holds his gaze, more direct than he would dare in a true negotiation, suddenly expending effort to sit still as the realization comes upon him the most likely position one of his general impression would occupy in provincial Garlemald; suddenly he suspects Gaius’ uncharacteristic leading has simply been that he knew the outcome of this conversation, and it is now only a matter of speaking it. “Your bed-servant, then.”

“Concubine,” Gaius agrees, the syllables of the proper Garlean term sharp on his tongue.

“Concubine,” Alphinaud repeats in his own accent.

“With any fortune, we will not be forced to play the charade,” he says, but he does not avert his eyes, and there is enough in his voice to make Alphinaud wonder if he feels the same tension he finds in his own mind: that his distaste is for playing out an untruth, not necessarily the acts implied of their presumed roles.

But said acts do not stray far from his thoughts, nor does the praise, and finally when the day is done and Alphinaud returns to his own bedroll, it feels an age before the last lamps are extinguished and he may reach into his leggings, relieving himself as soldiers do. Not for the first time he thinks of Gaius above him as he bites his lip, and if he is heard, none speak of it come morning.

 

“You,” the soldier -- a centurio, from the appearance of his armor -- says, and Alphinaud stops immediately as Gaius takes one more deliberate step forward. He thinks he can feel Gaius bristle at the address even as he turns, being spoken to thus by a provincial patrolman who in a previous life would salute him and obey his every word, were he to earn the attention of an officer so superior at all.

“Yes?” Gaius answers, as perfectly neutral as Alphinaud has yet heard him.

“Who is the boy?”

Alphinaud looks up sharply, and Gaius meets his eyes for but a second before shifting his attention back to the centurio. “My companions and I have been long separated from our own in Garlemald,” he answers with his usual confidence. “Surely you can imagine what use we have for an aan in our travels.”

Alphinaud stands up straighter as he is spoken of, and though he is quite resolved to playing his role, Gaius lays a hand on his shoulder, heavy and still, a constant physical reminder, perhaps even an assurance. It is surely more physical than Gaius has yet been with him in their acquaintance.

“He services you three? He looks as though he’d break after one good pounding.”

Alphinaud’s cheeks flush against his will. He recognizes the gerund as derived from a neutral verb, familiar from his reading, but he understands well enough the centurio’s implication.

“He has yet to.” Gaius tightens his grip, and Alphinaud leans into it even before making the conscious decision to do so, that he may appear accustomed to his touch.

“As you were,” the centurio says after a long moment.

Gaius moves his hand, but does not remove it; he places it on the center of Alphinaud’s back as though leading him. “Come, boy.”

Within his own thoughts Alphinaud expresses his gratitude that it is no betrayal to his persona if he cannot quite control the eagerness in his reaction. “My lord,” he says, and follows.

 

“I regret that such measures were necessary,” Gaius expresses to him that night, when they are alone.

“I do not,” Alphinaud replies before he fully considers the implications.

There was a time, mere days ago, he would have scolded himself for even entertaining such thoughts about the Black Wolf of Garlemald. _What would Krile say,_ he had spent the nights telling himself -- even worse, _what would Alisaie say?_ But the man has proven more depth than the name or indeed his reputation in the West has afforded him. He readily engages Alphinaud in conversation, and does not speak down to him though he cannot boast Maxima's command of local politics -- and they both have remained careful not to speak of their respective deeds in Eorzea. He has even proven to hold some knowledge of the Sharlayan tongue, though he is hardly fluent as he is in common Eorzean, but using it in conversation in those moments where Garlean lacks the certain specific term he seeks. The first time he does so it shocks Alphinaud as greatly as it had to hear him make occasional use of Ala Mhigan idiom.

Flow as their conversations may, to Alphinaud’s relief in his daily reporting, though he knows not if his linkpearl still transmitted, Gaius has not laid so much as a hand on him. To his frustration enduring the long nights of a northern winter, well, Gaius has not so much as laid a hand on him. No, even as their conversations grow longer and more frequent, the most direct physical attention he has paid Alphinaud still was in their encounter with the centurio. He has not yet forgotten the heat of Gaius’ hand upon his back, the roughness, the utter certainty with which he acted it belonged there.

Gaius cannot miss the ease of his reply -- he is not a man who acts the fool, nor has patience for such things -- but chooses not to engage it. “You played your part well.”

“I had but not to speak, and endure the man’s… assumptions.”

Gaius does not name said assumptions; he has no need to. “Nor did you cower from my touch.”

It is clear he means it as praise, and Alphinaud concentrates on the warmth he feels from that rather than the slightest indignation that might otherwise seep into his voice, an old habit long since broken but not fully forgotten. “I am not in the habit of cowering.”

Gaius continues undaunted. “I am not accusing you, boy. Merely expressing my gratitude we have succeeded in our ruse. If you have nothing further to say?” He stands, makes ready to leave. Alphinaud thinks of letting him leave. He would return to the others, Alphinaud would follow, and the party would prepare their evening meal and retire soon after dark, for the nights are too cold for much else. He thinks of himself alone in his bedroll in his own hand afterward, and his own sense that their closeness has already shifted into something shaped differently in the course of their conversations, with desire hovering at its edges.

“I may,” Alphinaud dares, standing himself, looking up at Gaius at his full height, no less imposing than when Alphinaud had been seated, for he barely reaches the level of his chest when they stand side-by-side. It is enough to draw Gaius’ attention, and he turns his focus upon Alphinaud with brow pulled together in unspoken inquiry, or perhaps even challenging him to play the hand he has now tipped.

Another moment passes, and Alphinaud grows keenly aware of how quickly his breaths come compared to Gaius’ above him. He swallows, considering carefully his next move, and Gaius’ gaze falls slightly lower, to his throat, the Black Wolf studying his prey -- or something far more mundane, no less thrilling. The feeling settles warm in his groin.

Feeling himself faced with the choice between words of diplomacy with all their layers of potential meaning, no matter should he employ the literalism of Gaius’ Garlean or Sharlayan’s poetics where Alphinaud himself feels most at ease, Alphinaud chooses the path known to him to leave no ambiguity as to his body’s desires: to thrust out his hands and take Gaius by his coat, dragging him off-center and down, low enough Alphinaud can stand on his toes and draw him into a kiss.

His lips are rough, as his hand was, as Alphinaud should have known they would be. Alphinaud leans into it when he parts them, pressing forward just as Gaius pulls back, and Alphinaud tightens his grip.

“Ah,” Gaius responds at once as they part, close enough the stubble on his jaw brushes Alphinaud’s lips as he speaks, and Alphinaud cannot fully suppress the needy sound in his throat. “It was not all a ruse.”

“Would that it were,” Alphinaud murmurs, shaking his head, the motion small enough not to put any more space between them.

“Ever the tactician,” Gaius says with the same warm regard that has bled through his voice before, clear enough Alphinaud could not mistake it for platitude even should Gaius be a man wont to engage in such things.

Gaius lowers himself to sit once more on the edge of the soldier’s cot that would be his bed, and Alphinaud climbs at once into his lap, threading his hands into his hair and taking from him another kiss, eagerly given. Gaius’ legs barely splayed, Alphinaud’s knees still do not touch the bedding where he parts them to perch in Gaius’ lap, so much larger without even armor to bolster his silhouette.

“They truly believed me to be your concubine,” Alphinaud says, a wild edge in his voice, watching Gaius’ hand fall to his own trousers, open the belt and button with ease and reach inside. It looks no larger than any to see Gaius stroke himself hard, but when Alphinaud covers his hand with his own he cannot wrap one hand around the width of it. Nor does his second hand cover the length when Gaius offers himself up to Alphinaud’s touch with a soft groan, lets Alphinaud hold what he can and stroke him in fine motions as he admires it, the wet slit and the thick ridge of his head, pressing skin back to expose it. “They believed I could take this into myself. That is what they assume, isn't it?”

“More like than not,” he says, with an impatience Alphinaud has not heard of him outside of battle. He has caused that, and the haggard exhale that is almost another groan when Alphinaud presses the length of his cock flush to his belly, uncaring for the fluid that is wiped onto his tunic, and they both can see just how far it reaches up his body.

He decides in that moment he needs it, all of it, holding him open and fucking into him up to his ribs, until he can go no further and Alphinaud’s body bulges with the raw size of it, filling completely the span between hs hips. He will have it, he _must_ , and he is caught between saying so and continuing to rub himself against it when Gaius’ hands catch him around the waist.

“Let me fuck your thighs,” Gaius says to him, and Alphinaud cannot move quickly enough, his hands abandoning Gaius’ cock to begin to press his leggings down.

“Yes, gods, that too--” and he is cut off as Gaius lifts him with an ease that steals Alphinaud’s breath. On some level he knew it was great, of course, much greater than his own physical power, but he can scarcely believe how _much_ strength is carried in his frame, half again as tall and what Alphinaud suspects is thrice his own mass.

He is placed on his hands and knees, and with a great shift in the cot’s balance Gaius places one knee on it behind him. He does not have to demand Gaius’ cock -- Gaius at once presses it between the tight grip of his bare thighs, scarcely enough room to do so, confined as he is by his leggings and boots and the sheer breadth of Gaius above him as he begins to move. Alphinaud arches his back, presses his hips up, and Gaius thrusts once, twice, rough and hot, before pulling himself back.

Alphinaud turns his head over his shoulder, the question of _why_ dying on his lips as he sees Gaius spit into his hand, stroking himself roughly and retaking his place between Alphinaud’s thighs as a matter of course. It is unspeakably crude, and Alphinaud gasps out, “Yes, _more_ ,” as Gaius’ now-wet hand closes upon his bare hip. For all his acumen in matters of politics, for all his study of their world and skill in tongues, there can be no mistake this man is before all else a consummate soldier, having been at war for twice Alphinaud’s lifetime; he is accustomed to taking and giving pleasure without fanfare, but using any means available to him.

Gaius uses him hard, demanding but by no means inconsiderate. Alphinaud cries out as he falls to his elbows, seeking against his flesh the friction of a cock made barely slick enough to stand by spit and what little fluid it leaks, keeps his thighs pressed tightly together though he longs to spread them wide and offer himself fully to Gaius’ gaze, his roughened hands, his thick cock. Gaius could not be less a teasing man but the sensation of his cock between Alphinaud’s thighs is near enough to it, dragging against his balls and the tight clutch of his legs. Gaius covers him completely and his body bears him down, the hard lines of soldier’s muscle softened not in the slightest by age, grinding against his hipbones just hard enough to be satisfying.

“More,” he says again, and reaches behind himself, and his hand finds Gaius’ side before his own, spreading himself open and tilting his hips up.

“I can’t fuck you,” he says, direct to the point of blunt, the Garlean carrying none of the ambiguity found in Eorzean, and Alphinaud whines as much for the statement as the shift in the pressure as it feels like Gaius takes himself in hand and drags just the head across his hole, wetting it with his fluids.

“You could. They thought you could,” he insists, the same thought that had played out in his own mind later that night in the settlement, before he had even seen that it _was_ as much as he’d imagined.

Gaius leans over him lower, pushing inexorably back between his thighs, and says in his rough voice, “Not yet,” and oh, that’s better, he can work with _yet_.

“But you will. You’ll -- you’ll get your fingers inside, and train it,” he insists, searching for verbs he would not know even were he not being taunted with the most magnificent cock, “and you _will_ fuck me.”

“I will,” and it is simply an affirmative to repeat the verb but it sounds like a promise, _I will fuck you_ , and his hole feels achingly empty, clutching at nothing when Alphinaud comes at the first touch of his own hand.

Gaius does not pause following Alphinaud’s climax, and Alphinaud will not ask him to. The friction afterward draws cries from his throat, and Alphinaud keeps his legs tight around the hot length of his cock as his head falls between his shoulders.

“I--” he begins, but the words fall from his lips unspoken.

Gaius lifts some of his weight from Alphinaud’s back, leaving Alphinaud to shiver in the cool air where there had been only heat, for at least a moment before he mouths hot at the side of his neck where his hair hasn’t fallen. “What is it, boy? To come once isn’t enough for you?”

“, no,” he answers to a gentle laugh, and when he can next think he might dare to hope that means it _was_ a promise, and Gaius has as much intention of making this a habit as he. “But for now I -- I would feel yours. I would have you come,” and the word feels even more vulgar repeated from his own lips, “come upon my thighs.”

He feels Gaius retreat, and he fears he’s misspoken -- but Gaius is not leaving, only shifting his weight, and Alphinaud moans when he hears the unmistakable slap of Gaius pressing into his own hand, spilling himself there, sparing Alphinaud’s clothes the further mess but also denying him the feel of it painting his thighs, leaving him to ache with yet unfulfilled desire.

In the aftermath they speak little and only of practicalities, but their mouths meet in kisses as they straighten their clothes, having crossed the threshold of the tension that had lingered in the spaces between them.

Later that evening, after a supper much like any other save for Alphinaud’s gaze lingering on the lines of Gaius’ shoulders, he returns to Gaius’ bed and places a hand upon his chest, covered only by cloth.

 

They fuck that night, and each night thereafter.

...or so Alphinaud wishes he could write. He yearns for it in the dark of Garlemald’s still, frigid nights, hard against Gaius’ muscle as he wraps strong arms around Alphinaud’s body and kisses his lips swollen, his cock ever between Alphinaud’s thighs; he aches for it in his own hand in the mornings after Gaius has risen.

It isn’t that they don’t _try_. No, once the dam has been broken, naught but their mission holds back the tide; deciding it best not to rely on promises made when one’s cock is held in another’s thighs, Alphinaud says in no uncertain terms, in his clearest Garlean, that he wishes for Gaius to fuck him properly.

Gaius does not go back on his word, only asking upon hearing this if Alphinaud had ever had a Garlean, perhaps quo Priscus. And oh, he would not have refused the chance should Maxima have offered, taller even than Gaius and almost as broad, a soldier in his own right even as learned as he was. Alphinaud had answered as much, to Gaius’ amusement, but then had admitted the truth, that he had had an Elezen but no larger; Gaius had pressed for no more details but simply asked whether the man had been full-grown.

Gaius is larger still, and Alphinaud has taken only ever as much as three of his fingers -- and even that only once -- but Gaius has not treated him with undue caution, neither in bed nor on the training grounds, for which Alphinaud is grateful.

This night, though he is spread apart by only two of Gaius’ fingers yet, Alphinaud bears the mess of a climax already on his belly, gathered up into his hand but not truly wiped away. He pants, drawing dry ceruleum-heated air into his lungs, and his cock pulses in his unmoving hand when he feels Gaius shift his wrist and rub his stretched-raw hole with the pad of his thumb, hot despite the drops of oil applied to ease the friction.

Gaius spreads his hole with his thumb at the same time his hand in its dressings slides from Alphinaud’s hip to his ass, pulls him open wide, and Alphinaud sighs in relief as he is finally offered a third. It is gentle, and Alphinaud rocks down on it, but despite the oil it does nothing but tease at his rim, slipping across his skin.

“Hold still,” Alphinaud demands, and Gaius answers with a low-voiced affirmative and moves his grip back to Alphinaud’s hipbone, a stabilizing force.

Alphinaud bites his lip and cants his hips down again, pushing as he does. It still isn’t enough -- he feels the exquisite tease of his touch, but it’s still only incidental, not the hard pressure he seeks from yet another of Gaius’ thick fingers.

“You're tight,” he says in his casual vulgarity and Alphinaud breaths a laugh, because it should not be possible when he has not spent more than one evening without Gaius’ fingers inside him since they began, and most nights his own as well. “Come once more for me.” Within him, Gaius curls his fingers, and begins drawing them out -- not to leave him, Alphinaud knows, but simply because his reach is too deep when he intends to milk him to climax rather than keep him full.

“When next I come, I want to be on your cock,” Alphinaud forces out, digging blunt nails into the muscle of Gaius’ chest where he braces himself as Gaius gives him a few moments of shallow thrusts that push soft sounds from Alphinaud’s throat, cause his eyes to fall closed and his body to quite naturally follow the rhythm he sets.

“I need it looser than this,” he counters, and presses with some insistence on the tightness of muscle just within, and Alphinaud could curse him for all that he is right in his maddening patience. For all it may be assumed Alphinaud takes his cock -- and the assumptions, as often as they occur, remain tantalizing, confirming without so many words that it will fit, they can _make_ it fit -- Gaius contents himself with Alphinaud’s thighs, or offers it to him to lick, for his mouth is too small to take it past his lips. It is Alphinaud who wants Gaius’ fingers to ride, who seeks more than Gaius’ first or even second finger to split him apart, deeper than any other has stroked his flesh, almost unnervingly so. It is Alphinaud’s own curiosity, having never seen let alone taken a man rivalling Gaius in size; it is his desire Gaius serves.

Gaius’ hand finds its mark and Alphinaud’s cock pulses, firm confident pressure inside pushing fluid from the tip. He could come like this, of course, in seconds, and he would not want to resist it should Gaius continue -- but while he can endure three in a single night, even in a single bell, he would be left too sensitive inside to take all that he is determined to.

When next he can coordinate the thought with the movement he presses his hand to Gaius’ chest, curling his fingers in the coarse hair there. “Enough.” Gaius raises his brow, but does not argue, and his hand falls still.

A small smile turns Alphinaud’s mouth, before he bites at his poor lower lip, already swollen, and resolves himself to lifting his body up on thighs already fatigued from the day’s walk even before he had spread them wide to straddle Gaius’ waist, letting Gaius’ fingers slip from his hole.

He settles pressed flush to Gaius’ side, resting his head on his shoulder and reaching behind himself. He feels as soft and open as he ever has, lacking only the satisfying soreness of having been properly _fucked_ \-- and even that he’s nearly managed once yet on naught else but Gaius’ fingers, riding him hard enough that his hole had felt tender to his own touch as he sought yet more relief in his own hands the next morning.

Without thinking of it, his mouth falls open as he explores, pressing his fingertips into his open rim, and Gaius takes the opportunity to kiss him.

Their kisses are wet, open-mouthed affairs at the best of times, and with Alphinaud a climax in and distracted by the feeling of his own gaping hole they become positively sloppy. Alphinaud allows Gaius the lead, sucking on his tongue when he’s offered it, and Gaius’ jaw brushes his, certain to rub it pink as he does most every night, Gaius shaving his face only in the mornings. It would be more unusual if, when they are finished, his thighs don’t bear similar use. He has hurried Gaius along, so impatient for his fingers inside he even refused his mouth -- though feeling it now, Gaius licking into his mouth as thought it is his to service, his resolve weakens.

“Your mouth,” he gasps, as that selfsame mouth presses its infernal heat to the corner of his jaw just at the base of his ear. “Your tongue. I want it in, in --” He cuts himself off, hesitates over the word. “I want you to lick me.”

“You want my tongue in your asshole, boy?” Gaius readily fills in. It is almost a growl murmured into his ear. “Licking you open for my cock?”

Alphinaud breathes a heartfelt _yes_ , all but praying his gratitude to the forebears of the Garlean language for providing specific verbiage for such acts of filth.

Gaius takes his mouth again, briefly, and Alphinaud is left panting after it when he retreats. Gaius’ hands ever move him with little effort, and he is guided to his knees; Alphinaud spreads his legs in offering, and Gaius accepts. The two fingers he has taken almost feel easy as they breach the slight gape of his hole again, hooking just inside and pulling his rim open, licking into the space he creates.

Alphinaud clenches, pulling him in, and he clutches at the blanket beneath him before he reaches behind himself again, spreads his ass with both hands as he falls to his shoulders, the picture of obscenity. Gaius’ fingers slip from Alphinaud’s hole and he presses his face flush to him, his tongue pressing deep, kissing him in the most vulgar of ways. No, his face will not be the only skin upon Alphinaud’s body rubbed raw this night, and the bedding barely muffles his cry at the thought.

Even Gaius’ tongue is thick enough to feel more than teasing inside him, and though it is hardly the firm pressure he wants most, he loses himself to it. His strokes are gentle like his hands cannot be, and still are not when he replaces Alphinaud’s own spreading him apart. Alphinaud rocks back without shame, testing him, and whimpers his pleasure when sure enough his grip tightens, and Gaius holds him down without effort.

He does not know how long he can bear it, or how long he tries. It relaxes him and torments him, unable to so much as squirm away from the sensation, steadily building into a climax that would be so close should he reach out and take it. It isn’t until Gaius presses the flat of his tongue to his clenching hole and he nearly falls over that edge without any more ceremony that he finds the will to summon his voice and tell him to _stop_.

Gaius licks obscenely across his hole one last time, sure to leave Alphinaud wet as he retreats. He thinks this must be the most open he has ever been, feeling the room’s chill on his inner tissues.

“Your cock,” he gasps. “Gods above, give me your cock.”

“Come, take it on your back,” Gaius says, and bless his strength, because Alphinaud doubts he could move under his own power, but it is a simple enough matter for Gaius to put him onto his back, where large hands fold his legs up to his shoulders and quite naturally his own clutch at them to keep them in their place, and oh, already this feels better: it leaves him open rather than continually trying to spread his legs wider on his knees or atop Gaius, as though it would create room where there is no more between his hips -- as though anything but Gaius’ cock itself could create that. And that cock, gods, it is all he can look at as the cot rattles beneath him with the force of Gaius settling his weight onto it, stroking oil down his length, playing with his thumb across the slit as he does, the roughness of his sword hand across tender flesh.

As he takes up his place between Alphinaud’s legs Gaius stills his hand and holds himself in place with a restraint Alphinaud cannot imagine possessing even should he see his own sixtieth year, or near enough to it. He digs his fingers into his own thighs as he holds himself open, as he would into Gaius’ shoulders -- as he will, when he is fucked.

For as loose as he felt to his own hand, the head is an enormous pressure at his entrance, as much as it had felt the very first night. He holds his tongue between his teeth in concentration, feeling the tension in his thighs and hips, pressing out in an attempt to release it. His eyes fall closed as Gaius drags the head of his cock across his entrance, and then gives him pressure.

For a moment it is not enough, and reflexively Alphinaud readies his arguments -- he _can_ master his body, he has done so before -- but the challenge does not come, only more pressure that begins to spread his hole open, slick with oil and Gaius’ own spit. At first all he can feel is the stretching, and with every second it only stretches his entrance further, until he is panting for any breath, unable to find enough to ask how much more, unsure it will _ever_ be enough -- and in another second Gaius swears the moment he is breached, and Alphinaud’s jaw falls in a wordless moan.

This, _this_ is what he had sought: the penetration is slow, unforgiving, unending. He pushes out as the width of it holds his rim apart, draws ragged breaths at the friction against sore muscle as Gaius thrusts inside, pressing deep as quickly as Alphinaud’s hole will allow him. _Yes, yes_ , he thinks, hopes he is saying aloud. He feels unable to move, using all of his strength simply to exist stretched open on Gaius’ cock that does not end, certain he will choke on it before they’re through.

After an age of pushing, giving in to Alphinaud’s requests for _more,_ he’ll have it all, _please_ , Gaius pulls Alphinaud’s hips to himself at the same time he thrusts, wrenching him apart and seating himself with a grunt, his hips pressed flush and his balls heavy between them.

The pressure, gods, the pressure is too great -- it drives fluid from the tip of his cock, smearing onto Gaius’ skin as he grinds. It presses out from between Alphinaud’s hips as his body simply runs out of space, displaced by the sheer size of him.

He feels tension in Gaius’ body above him, a precursor to movement, and his hand scrabbles from his thigh to Gaius’ arm beside it, wrapping it around as much of it as he can manage. It isn’t too much for him, gods, no, not that, but having felt it he aches at the thought of losing it so soon. “Wait. Wait, gods, give me a moment.” It is not a question, and victory washes over him as Gaius groans and his body relaxes, obeying.

There is held-back strength in his arms and shoulders, honed by the exercises Alphinaud has caught him doing in the mornings, and though staying still is its own strain. Gaius remains in place even as Alphinaud begins to squirm beneath him, though Alphinaud thinks he can see the cracks in his self-control: the tremor in his shoulders, the sweat that beads at his temple even in air so dry. For all his lack of skill, for the vast disparity in their physical strength, Alphinaud has caused that. He has joined an Imperial legatus in his bed, and taken the whole of his cock, and now he will fuck him on Alphinaud’s command. A momentary shot of pride courses through him, and raw desire, and he can no longer hold his own resolve. “Go on. More. Now,” he says, the short imperatives foreign to his own voice.

“Let go,” Gaius counters, the voice he uses for command but with an edge of desperation, dropping his hand once again to the burn of Alphinaud’s rim, rubbing muscle stretched taut -- rubbing more oil into it, he realizes with a start.

“Please,” Alphinaud answers, just as much need in his voice now as he makes up his mind. “Fuck me, ” he says, and catches the round vowels of Sharlayan from his own lips. He could not say when he had fallen into it, nor how much of it Gaius has understood, though he knows not how he could ever be misunderstood, pinned as he is by a cock so enormous he feels he shouldn’t be able to breathe.

He manages one deep, bracing breath, then another, and says in unmistakeable Garlean, “ _Fuck_ me.”

Gaius snaps his hips, pushing a cry out of Alphinaud straight from his belly. 

Alphinaud cannot manage more than those cries as they fall into a rhythm more demanding than Alphinaud dared imagine, but Gaius begins to speak. He cannot see his lips, Gaius so much larger that to fuck him on his back Alphinaud faces the broad muscle of his chest, reaches up to press his mouth to it when he can find the coordination. From the haze of his pleasure Alphinaud catches perhaps only four out of every five words, the filthiest of poetry no match for years of barracks talk even were his concentration not deserting him in desire to lose himself to the hard use. He says he would see Alphinaud ride him, sit on his cock and split himself open, and something about fucking him so deep he would strike a part Alphinaud doesn’t believe he _has_ , and once even what he would swear means _let me piss in this hole_ and oh _gods_ , that cannot mean -- it must be metaphor, it _must_ be, but Alphinaud can hold out no longer, coming between them with no touch upon his cock beyond the brush of Gaius’ abdomen, painting it in what come he has left to give. Gaius stills, keeps him full, pushes deep and holds himself there as Alphinaud endures it, held open too far even to clench down on his cock as the rest of his body draws tight in climax.

When he can focus his sight, Gaius has bent himself so that Alphinaud may see his face, but his jaw is set, his own eyes closed, trembling with withheld force. Alphinaud aches between his legs.

He finally lets go of his own thighs -- they sting where he must have dug his nails in -- and lets Gaius’ weight hold them open, reaching up to hold what he can of Gaius’ shoulders. “Fuck me,” he commands again. “Don’t stop until you come in me. Make a wreck of it,” and he cannot continue, his tongue feeling clumsy as it so rarely does when Gaius does as he’s bid, barely coordinated enough for the kiss he drags Gaius into by the hair, as much as it is a kiss, pressing his open mouth to Gaius’ jaw, stubble sharp against his lips -- but he finds Gaius no better, as overwhelming as Alphinaud is overwhelmed, and the inverse.

When he comes a few aching moments later, Alphinaud can feel his cock pulse, would swear he can feel his come pour into him, and it spills from his hole when Gaius leaves him a too-short moment later, overfull without the pressure of Gaius’ cock holding it inside.

One of Alphinaud’s legs falls, but he holds the other when Gaius presses it up once more, turning to his side, and sighs as Gaius’ two fingers press in -- barely feeling filled, for all he knows he had struggled to take even this mere days ago.

“ _Oh_ ,” Alphinaud breathes. “I had -- thought it loose before.” Alphinaud reaches behind himself with a shaky hand and finds the gape of his hole, his slender fingers working in beside Gaius’. He plays with it, pulling it open, stroking and soothing the hot flesh; Gaius pets him inside, lingering in no one spot to draw undue attention to the soreness.

“Tell me,” he begins, what little shame he may have had long wrenched from him. “Tell me how it looks.”

Gaius laughs a curse, the same word he had breathed before, and in place of those fingers Alphinaud feels the much gentler pressure of his thumbs, both of them, pressing just inside the soft muscle at his entrance and parting it. “It looks well-used. Red like your lips.” Alphinaud bites his lip as he glances up to confirm it. “You’ll take it easily yet, my boy.”

Alphinaud does not miss the possessive appended to that, Gaius’ preferred address for him in both public and private. The sentiment in it tugs at something within him, and after a moment even through his exhaustion he places it. It is what he had called Cid all that time ago, the first time they had met, in Garuda's shadow, in another life; and in what can be no mere chance, it is what Cid himself calls Alphinaud.

Even as he thinks, Alphinaud can feel the weight of Gaius’ attention as he rakes his gaze across Alphinaud's body, lingering not just on his worn hole but on the redness his face had left upon pale skin, down to his hips where soon enough he will wear his bruises. “You'll have need of your magicks if you are to walk tomorrow.”

For all he has just endured, he blushes, and throws an arm across his face, groaning into it. Gaius is right, but he is not yet ready to release the feeling, this hard-earned aching satisfaction. “Yes, but not now. In the morning.”

If he can get Gaius’ fingers in him once again come morning, to spread him open and spill his come across the ruin of his hole that in this moment feels as if it will never close tight again, all the better.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun facts!
> 
> _Verbs meaning 'urinate' are often used of ejaculation in Latin: Catull. 67.30 'qui ipse sui gnati minxerit in gremium', Hor. Serm. 1.2.44 'hunc perminxerunt calones' ... Serm. 2.7.52 'ne / ditior aut formae melioris meiat eodem', Pers. 6.73 'patriciae inmeiat uoluae', Mart. 11.46.2 'incipit in medios meiere uerpa pedes', Anth. Lat. 374 tit. 'De Diogene picto, ubi lasciuienti menetrix barbam euellit et Cupido mingit in podice eius', ibid. 6 'min- gitur archisophus'. Note too the marginal gloss 'frequenter mingebam' () on the spurcum additamentum at Apul. Met. l 10.21._  
>  and
> 
> _In the Cento Nuptialis Ausonius uses another compound, recutio, in a sexual sense: 126, p. 217 P. 'itque reditque uiam totiens uteroque recusso / transadigit costas' ('striking the womb' indicates depth of penetration)._  
>  from J. N. Adams, _The Latin Sexual Vocabulary_ (1982), p. 142, 148


End file.
